Dog was piloting Pennsylvania, an AWACS-equipped radar version of the EB-52, which was also carrying two Flighthawk U/MF-3s strapped to her wings. The robot planes would be piloted by Zen, who was already in his specially adapted seat on the Flighthawk control deck on the Megafortress’s lower level. The area had once been used by the B-52’s offensive team; Zen sat roughly where the navigator would have had his post before the aircraft was overhauled.
Kevin McNamara, Dog’s copilot, was going through the preflight checklists with the help of the computer when Dog slipped into the driver’s seat next to him.
“Welcome aboard, Colonel,” said McNamara. “We’re just about ready to give these turbines a twist and see what they can do.”
Across from the Pennsylvania sat the Indianapolis, getting a last minute check from the ground crew. The “Indy “—like the “Penn,” named after a famous battleship—was an almost mirror image of the Pennsylvania, with a long snout and a slight bulge for her radar gear about midship. Indy had not yet seen action, but the man at the helm, Major Merce Alou, was a veteran of several Dreamland deployments. The two Flighthawk pilots—Starship and Kick, who would each control one U/MF-3—had done themselves proud over the South China Sea and Taiwan barely a month before.
Dog glanced across at the other plane’s lit cockpit and saw Major Alou. He gave him a thumbs-up and got one in return.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he told McNamara, punching up the computer screen that controlled the engine start.
Brunei
12 October 1997, 1408
Sahurah watched quietly as the brothers brought the limp bodies to the shaded area at the side of the sultan’s compound, composing them respectfully.
Commander Besar was brought up last. The blast that had killed him had struck him in the back and neck, nearly severing his head from his body. The men who set him down were grim-faced; one appeared to be near tears. Sahurah considered scolding them, for surely Besar was now at bliss in Paradise.
If so great a sinner as Besar could find peace, why could Sahurah not?
“Cars!” said one of the men near the front of the compound, relaying the word from a lookout.
Sahurah left the others to care for the bodies and went out to the front. Three vehicles came up the drive. The first and last were filled with heavily armed men, crammed four across, front and back.
The middle car contained the imam and the Saudi. The imam pushed open the door and got out with a smile. “You have done well, Sahurah. So well!” he shouted, and he clasped Sahurah to his chest.
“The brothers have done their duty,” said Sahurah.
“And you remain humble!”
The imam seemed to be chiding him. But did the Prophet not direct a believer to know his proper place, to master overweening pride? If the great patriarchs, if the rulers and teachers had not boasted, how could such as Sahurah?
“We have not found the sultan,” reported Sahurah. “He escaped from the compound during the fighting.”
“A small matter in the context,” said the imam, waving his hand. “The capital is ours. Within a few days, we will control the entire country. The future is great, Sahurah”
“Yes”
“More work remains,” said the imam. “But we must give praise to Allah for the triumphs so far.”
“Yes” Sahurah saw now that he had denied the Lord his just thanks, and felt ashamed.
“I have heard that an American was taken prisoner at the airport,” said the commander.
“I was not aware of that,” said Sahurah. “My work has been here”
“Yes. It would be good if you were to take charge of him. He may prove valuable in the future. He was the head of the sultan’s air force.”
“I will look into it immediately.”
“There are anti-aircraft missiles there,” added the commander. “A crew has been sent from Malaysia to train our people to use them. You should select some of your best men to learn. There may be a counter-attack.”
“Understood.”
“We will have control of the nation very shortly,” said the commander. “Very shortly.”
“For the glory of Allah,” said Sahurah.
The imam smiled and got back into the car.
Brunei, near the Malaysian border
12 October 1997, 1708
McKenna crouched amid the rocks as the speedboat cut its engine and coasted toward the shoreline. The two Brunei policemen with her started to rise.
“No,” she said sharply. “Wait until we’re sure of them.”
The men immediately dropped back into a crouch. McKenna picked up her binoculars as the speedboat turned parallel to the shoreline, drifting for a moment. There were five men in it, all armed with large guns—machine-guns, she thought, something on the order of Minimis, the Belgian weapons known in the U.S. as M249s.
The man at the wheel was bin Awg.
“All right,” she told the two policemen. “Carefully.”
As the men moved down to the water, McKenna worked her glasses up and down the shoreline, making sure no one had managed to sneak past the guards she’d posted. Two dozen members of the Brunei police force had rallied to the small camp at the very tip of the country. McKenna’s wing-man had recommended the old airfield when it became clear they couldn’t land at the airport; until today it had mostly been used by helicopters and very light aircraft. The strip was barely wide enough for the A-37Bs. It was long, at least, and, if you ignored two mud holes at the right side about a quarter of the way from the northern end, smooth and solid. She thought she could get the Dragonflies off it with a full or nearly full load of fuel and weapons. Of course, to do that, she’d need jet fuel.
Ammunition would be nice, as well.
McKenna waited until Prince bin Awg was ashore before going down to greet him.
“The sultan is here?” asked the prince.
“He’s fine”
“He must leave now,” said bin Awg. “I’ve arranged safe haven in the Philippines.”
“Why?” said McKenna. She headed for the trail back to the camp.
“You don’t understand. He’s in great danger.”
“Of course I understand. But his duty is to liberate his kingdom and protect his people,” said McKenna.
“His duty is to preserve himself while we do that,” said bin Awg. His strides lengthened as he found the trail.
“I disagree,” said McKenna.
“It’s not up to you”
“Or you.”
THE PRINCE ARGUED WITH HIS UNCLE FOR MORE THAN A HALF hour, but the sultan would not be convinced. The only concession he made was that he would not personally use a rifle unless desperate measures were called for.
McKenna—who heard the argument through the thin walls of the office they had taken as their headquarters—wasn’t sure whether those conditions might not be met at any moment. They were getting different reports from the radio and the one telephone line that remained working. Guerillas—Islamic terrorists who had been operating against Malaysia until a few days before—had taken over the capital and much of the northern portion of the country. While a good number of Brunei policemen and soldiers had fought bravely, the country had largely been taken by surprise. Sadly, a number of government officials had been less than brave, fleeing their posts at the first alarm.
Brunei was by nature a land of peace. That was its greatest problem now—when the unthinkable came, it was difficult to respond.
McKenna worried about Mack Smith and the Megafortress. She assumed that he had turned around once he saw the airport had been taken over, but in the confusion there was no way to know.
The sultan came to the door of the small room he had adopted as his headquarters and called in McKenna, along with the local police chief, who had rallied his men to the camp.